


Song of the bleeding throat

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Through dooms of love [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (And Maeglin just falls), Celebrimbor in Gondolin AU, Fall of Gondolin, Light Sexual Content, Lots of doomy-ness, M/M, Mild battle violence, References to First Kinslaying, Tyelpe falls for all the wrong people, Tyelpe's life is fucking tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor, and the fall of Gondolin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song of the bleeding throat

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This was hastily written, more an experiment than a fully formed fic. Canon is scribbled in with a large crayon, great liberties are taken, and only the barest attention is paid to the text. But since I already have Celebrimbor in Gondolin, I figure ‘roughly approximate canonverse’ is the very best I can hope for anyway.

The city was aflame, and Celebrimbor’s sword was dark with gore.

He rounded a corner, slipping on a slick of blood, and from the distance he heard a dreadful roar. A shudder took him, and for an instant, he was young again, watching from afar the tiny form of his grandfather, surrounded by flaming figures. He remembered the dreadful look on his father’s face, remembered the thunder of his uncle’s voice as he ordered them forward, and he remembered the bloodied, blazing figure of Fëanor as he fell.

He raised his eyes, now, knowing what he would see.

_A balrog, a balrog has come – !_

There was no one on this particular side street, no one alive at least, and Celebrimbor began to run, his hastily put-on armor making him slower and clumsier than he otherwise would have been.

Maeglin would have shaken his head and told him that for strength and flexibility nothing was better than galvorn. Perhaps he was right, but something about the sleek black metal always made Celebrimbor shiver. He wished he wore it now, though, as his breath rasped in his heavy helm and his shoulders ached under the weight of the steel plates.

Where  _was_  Maeglin?

 

_-_

_Just that morning Celebrimbor had woken Maeglin with lazy kisses, wordlessly teasing him until Maeglin had cursed him, half laughing, and rolled him over and pinned him to the bed – which was, of course, what Celebrimbor had wanted from the beginning._

_But after, Maeglin had been strangely remote. Celebrimbor knew that his cousin was prone to bouts of moodiness where he would become withdrawn and silent, but when they were alone together, Celebrimbor could always crack open that indifferent façade._

_Not today._

_And Maeglin had gotten up from the bed and dressed himself, his eyes shuttered with an indifference that Celebrimbor almost never saw turned upon himself._

_He’d propped himself up in bed, his hair falling over his shoulder, and said, “Why rush away? Come back to bed, Maeglin.” He’d let his voice go low and soft, the persuasive tone he knew Maeglin could rarely deny, but today Maeglin had turned away, and said, his voice oddly flat, “There are things I must do.”_

_“Maeglin – ”_

_“Later.”_

_There had been something odd, then, a tremor that had run through Maeglin’s body, and for a moment it seemed there must have been something in Celebrimbor’s eye, for Maeglin’s outline had shimmered briefly. And for an instant he thought he saw blood running down Maeglin's neck, leaking from some wound hidden beneath his hair._

_Celebrimbor had almost said something, reached out solicitously – but then he blinked, and the moment passed. Maeglin was whole and unmarked before him, his pale skin smooth and fair, and that had been the last Celebrimbor had seen of him, as he left the room._

_He remembered listening to Finrod speak of Foresight, and how it was like a brief veil dropping over your eyes, hanging a possibility over the reality before you._

_And he wondered._

-

 

Now, his footsteps pounding down the bloody street as the roar of the balrogs grew louder in his ears, Celebrimbor thought of that moment.

And he thought,  _if I am to die today, let that not be the last time I see him. Give me one more moment._

_If I am to die today, allow me one more glimpse of him_

_If this is the end – Grant me that._

-

Another corner, and he stumbled over a body. There was shouting up ahead, and the flash of steel. Soldiers, at last.

He raced up to them, and saw a familiar golden head.

“Glorfindel!”

“Lord Celebrimbor!” Glorfindel turned, long sword in hand. “Thank Eru. You are the first of the royal family we have seen in a while – Is the king alive?”

“I don’t know,” said Celebrimbor, feeling ashamed that he had not yet spared a thought for Turgon. “I have seen no one alive for – ”  _hours, no, for that many bodies it must have been days, weeks…_  “ – a while now.”

Glorfindel turned away for a moment, signaling his men up a side street. When he turned back to Celebrimbor, he said, in a voice of determined calm. “Have you seen any other captains? Have you seen Ecthelion?”

“No,” said Celebrimbor, and Glorfindel set his jaw. “I – ”

“Listen,” said Glorfindel, “We must to the Square of the King. I fear – I have been overly delayed, and I must bring what remain of my men there. Will you come?”

“Of course,” said Celebrimbor. “Glorfindel, you have seen no sign of – Has there been any word of – ”

Just then there was that horrible, familiar roar, and Glorfindel and Celebrimbor both leapt back as a blazing beam fell between them.

“We must go!” shouted Glorfindel, his hair blowing around his face. “Take the lead with half my men – I’ll bring up the rear.” His eyes shone rather eerily out of his soot-blackened face, and Celebrimbor didn’t argue.

“Right,” he said, and wheeled, sword in hand.

-

Celebrimbor was no stranger to battle and war, no stranger to death and loss.

And as the city fell, flashes of those previous battles flickered before his eyes.

Children were screaming, and Celebrimbor was once again at Alqualondë, terrified, his hands wet with blood, searching desperately for his father and uncles.

 _This time you are slaying no innocents_ , he told himself fiercely, and whirled to sever the head of a snarling orc.

White towers fell, and Celebrimbor was once again standing on the docks at his father’s side, watching the fair boats burn.

 _Your hand did not light this fire_ , he reminded himself as he wrapped an arm around the waist of a wounded soldier and hauled him free of the burning wreckage.

_Another city, lost –_

Flaming whips rose and fell.

_The cries of those he loved, in torment._

Again.

Something made him turn. Something made him look up, to the high walls.

For a moment his spirits lifted and his heart leapt – for there was a familiar tall figure, in shining black. Maeglin had cast off his helmet, and his dark hair spilled over his shoulders.  And at his throat, something glowed – scarlet and gold.

For a wild moment, Celebrimbor was reminded of his grandfather’s crest, of the colors of their banner.

And then he thought of the glowing ember eyes of the balrogs.

 

-

_Early in their days together, when he had finally gotten Maeglin to stop being self-conscious of the tattoos winding over his shoulders and arms, he would trace the inked lines as they lay bare and sated together._

_Once, he asked, “Do you think of adding to them? The tattoos, I mean?”_

_“No,” said Maeglin sleepily, nuzzling against Celebrimbor’s neck. “I will not let anyone mark me, ever again.”_

_“Unless it is me, of course,” Celebrimbor had said, teasingly, and lowered his head to bite at Maeglin’s shoulder, and Maeglin had laughed – so rare still, that laugh – and let him._

-

 

Celebrimbor’s vision was fogged with ash and smoke, but in his delirium he was almost sure he could see fiery lines winding their way over Maeglin’s distant form. Like tattoos; like scars.

He was about to raise his voice, to shout, heedless of all else, when he realized that there were figures with Maeglin on the wall, and they were struggling with him.

It took him a beat to realize they were not the hulking, crabbed figures of orcs.

It took him another beat to recognize the long golden hair of one of the figures, and to see that it was Idril.

 

-

_“Where do you feel most at ease?” Maeglin had asked him once, as they stood together on the walls one warm evening._

_Celebrimbor had leaned lazily against the sun-warmed rocks, enjoying the last rays of sun on his bare arms and said, “What do you mean?”_

_“Do you like it up here?” Maeglin was staring out over the plains, an arrested look on his face. “Do you like it on the heights?”_

_Celebrimbor tilted his head, considering. “Yes,” he said at last. “It gives me a sense of what it would be, in the moment before flight.”_

_“Do you plan on flying one day?” asked Maeglin, skeptically. “Growing wings and taking off into the sunset?”_

_“Don’t mock,” said Celebrimbor, nudging him. “It’s more speculation of what the eagles might feel, before they take off from their high aeries. I am allowed some whimsical speculation, aren’t I? But why do you ask?”_

_“Because,” said Maeglin, and his fingers picked restlessly at the stone, “I rather prefer the depths.”_

_“I have had enough of deep places,” said Celebrimbor, thinking of Nargothrond, and the familiar ache that accompanied it._

_“Well,” said Maeglin, after a long pause, turning to face him, “Perhaps you are right, after all. Heights give us a glimpse of what we may never attain for ourselves. Perhaps this is as close as we will get to flight.”_

_“Perhaps,” said Celebrimbor, and pulled him into a brief kiss in the momentary solitude of the lonely ramparts._

-

 

He may have cried out – certainly his throat was raw and torn later – but then, he would not have been the only one to scream, that day. Perhaps it was only the smoke he had inhaled.

He had leapt forward, certainly, what little good it did. He didn’t even know for whom he reached; had he been on those walls, who knows whether he would have drawn his sword, and against whom?

From the heights, Maeglin flew.

To the depths, Maeglin fell.

And around Celebrimbor, another kingdom was lost.

 


End file.
